(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green Read online

  There was silence while Albert tried to come to terms with this staggering piece of news. His voice was husky when he at last found words.

  'You'd never be able to run the Fuchsia Bush, girl. You ain't got the brain.'

  Although this was exactly Nelly's own private opinion, and had been so since that sad evening of Mrs Peters' death, to hear it put into such disparaging words, and by Albert of all people, brought out all Nelly's fighting spirit.

  'You don't know nothing about it! Mrs Peters wouldn't have left it to me if she hadn't thought I'd be able to cope.'

  'She was wandering, poor soul. Must've bin. Why, you gets in a muddle with the grocer's bill! You ain't no businesswoman.'

  'I'll soon learn,' said Nelly shortly, taking the tea cups to the sink. 'And don't go blabbing about it in the Two Pheasants. Time enough when the news gets out later.'

  'You'd best by far sell the place,' shouted Albert, above the noise of clashing crockery. 'Bring us in a tidy bit. We could move somewhere bigger.'

  Nelly turned off the taps, left the sink, and resumed her place at the table. Albert surveyed her stern face with some trepidation.

  'There's no "us" and "we" about this, Albert Piggott! Mrs Peters left it to me alone, and I'm the one as will say what happens to the Fuchsia Bush.'

  'All right, all right,' muttered Albert. 'Keep your hair on. I was only suggesting -'

  'Then you can keep your suggestions to yourself. I'm going to keep the Fuchsia Bush running as Mrs Peters wanted. It was her dying wish.'

  'Maybe. But she'd never know if you sold it,' said Albert rallying. 'I wonder as Mr Venables didn't tell you to! Best all round, I'd say.'

  'Say what you like,' retorted Nelly. 'I'm the one that has the last word, and the last word is that I'm not selling!'

  'You could have one of them new houses up towards Nidden. Fitted kitchen, bathroom and all that. And never need to go out to work. Me neither!'

  Nelly looked at him with utter contempt. I am not selling! And work is what I like. You'd be a happier man, Albert Piggott, if you took the same pride in your job.'

  Silenced, Albert rose to make his way next door to the public house. He knew when he was beaten.

  'And watch your tongue,' shouted Nelly after him. 'No need to broadcast the news to your good-for-nothing pals. It'll get round soon enough, if I know anything about gossip.'

  Nelly was right, of course. The news flashed round Thrush Green and Lulling, and the general feeling was that Nelly was lucky to have dropped into a fortune.

  'Of course, she'll sell it,' was the comment most frequently heard. 'I just hope whoever buys it will keep it going as it is. The Fuchsia Bush is an important place in Lulling High Street.'

  People began to stop Nelly as she went to and fro to her work.

  'Aren't you lucky?'

  'What a windfall!'

  'You've certainly hit the jackpot this time, Nelly.'

  These remarks irritated Nelly beyond measure.

  In the first place, she resented the envy which prompted these comments. She was the first to recognize her indebtedness to her late partner. She grieved for her daily, missing her companionship and steady good sense.

  But she did not consider herself unadulteratedly lucky. The responsibility of owning the business quite overshadowed her feelings of pleasure and gratitude. It was a burden she could well do without, and only the fact that Mrs Peters had shown such faith in her gave Nelly some comfort.

  She replied civilly to all who commented, telling them that she hoped to continue Mrs Peters' work to the best of her ability, and with advice from Mr Venables. And, she always added with some emphasis, she was definitely not selling the property.

  That, at least, was greeted everywhere with relief. Violet, Ada and Bertha Lovelock made a point of calling at the Fuchsia Bush for coffee one morning, and expressing their pleasure at the news. It was a changed attitude on the part of the old ladies, thought Nelly, from the days when she had been maid, cook and general dogsbody for a short time at the house next door.

  There, she recalled, the doling out of minuscule amounts of the cheapest margarine, a handful of currants, a half teacupful of sugar with the request to make 'a good fruit cake for tea'. She remembered too the dab of metal polish, in an old saucer, which was deemed adequate for polishing the vast amounts of silver knick-knacks covering several tables in the drawing-room.

  Then she was treated as 'a skivvy', thought Nelly, receiving her former employers graciously. Now she was being acknowledged as a property owner and a sound businesswoman in her own right.

  It was such encounters which began to give Nelly the confidence to tackle the sacred trust which had been thrust so dauntingly upon her.

  News of Carl Andersen's return was welcomed by everyone who had met him on his first visit. But it was Edward Young who was particularly pleased at the news.

  He had been greatly impressed by Carl Andersen, and even more stirred by the fact that Carl was one of the directors of the world-famous company of Benn, Andersen and Webbly whose work was respected in both hemispheres.

  The firm had been much in the news over its bold and inspired work on such projects as dam-building, bridge-making and the laying-out of airports in the vast areas of Africa and Asia. Edward had followed the fortunes of the company in a number of articles in his architectural journals, and marvelled at the massive concept needed to visualize these mighty schemes.

  His own architectural skills were confined to domestic work. He had a flair for designing modern houses which would fit well into their settings, and an equally strong feeling for the modernization of the small stone cottages which were scattered within a few miles of his own home. He had built up a reputation for this type of work, and as he had some domestic talents himself he was alert to the difficulties of planning kitchens for families or bathrooms for the disabled.

  He relished his work, and was at pains to get every detail correct as well as pleasing to the eye. It was this anxiety for perfection which sometimes made him short-tempered, and which Joan understood and readily forgave.

  It was she who shared his pleasure at the thought of Carl's return. Molly and Ben were also delighted, but Joan's feelings went further. Edward would have a companion with whom he could discuss all kinds of architectural matters. He would have a friend whose accomplishments he respected and whose work he found absorbing.

  With any luck, thought Joan, he would put this wretched business of enlarging the sitting-room at Rectory Cottages to one side, and find the peace of mind he so needed to do work of his own.

  All in all, the coming of Carl Andersen was awaited by everyone in Thrush Green with the greatest pleasure.

  Dotty Harmer had heard the news of the American's expected visit, and of Nelly Piggott's inheritance, but had more pressing matters to engage her attention.

  Flossie was not well. She had certainly rallied after the vet's attentions earlier, and had pottered about her domain and endured the boisterous attentions of Bruce with commendable tolerance.

  But now she was listless. She could not be bothered to eat, and Dotty kept her going with a dribble of evaporated milk now and again which was all, it seemed, that would tempt the patient.

  'She can't go on like this,' said Kit, who had come to Dotty's kitchen with Connie to confer with her. 'I should get the vet again.'

  Connie, more worried about Dotty than Flossie, heartily agreed. At this rate, she could see, she would have two invalids to care for.

  'I'm sure you're right,' she said at last. 'It's just that I dread him saying that he can do no more for poor Flossie.'

  'I'll ring him at once,' said Kit, making for the door. He was as anxious as his wife to get some knowledgeable support in the situation.

  Dotty squatted down beside Flossie's basket and fondled her ears.

  'In theory, of course, I am entirely in favour of the vet putting Flossie out of her misery, if misery it is,' she said to Connie when Kit had vanished. 'If only doctors w
ould do the same for us!'

  'Now come!' protested Connie. 'You know they have to take the Hypocrites Oath—'

  'Hippocratic!' interrupted Dotty.

  'Well, whatever it is. And they have to swear to try and save life, not terminate it.'

  'I know that! I know that,' snapped Dotty. 'All I'm saying is that if you are human you are caught all ways. No one will help us out, no matter how bad the pain. As Hamlet very sensibly said,

  When he himself might his quietus make

  With a bare bodkin

  we still have to go on suffering! I shan't let Flossie suffer, and that's flat, but I just hope the vet can give her another few months of happy living.'

  Connie was alarmed at Dotty's ferocity, and the pink patches which had flared in the old lady's face. She bent down and helped her to her feet.

  'I think you could do with a drink,' she said gently. 'Shall I get you a little brandy?'

  'No, no, I should much prefer a cup of lime tea.'

  'Very well,' agreed Connie, 'and I will have one too.'

  She filled the kettle, thinking that lime tea, at least, was fairly harmless. There was agitation enough in the household at the moment, without adding alimentary complications into the present climate.

  While Dotty awaited the vet's visit with some trepidation, Albert Piggott had put aside his broom in the church porch, and crossed the road to the open door of the Two Pheasants.

  The news about the Fuchsia Bush had been widely discussed in both bars during the last few days, and Albert was heartily sick of the heavy-handed teasing he had to endure.

  But nothing, he told himself sturdily, was going to make him change the habits of a lifetime, and when the doors of the pub opened he intended to enter and refresh himself, as was his wont.

  There was only one other customer in the bar, and that was Percy Hodge. He looked up as Albert entered.

  'How's the millionaire this morning?' he greeted Albert, grinning at his own wit.

  'You shut up!' growled Albert. 'You're asking for a thick ear, and that's flat.'

  'Now, now, gentlemen,' cried Mr Jones, who was never free from the possibility of getting a name for 'a disorderly house', as the licensing justices put it. 'My old mother used to say: "Little birds in their nest agree, or else they will fall out.'"

  Both customers found themselves wholeheartedly disliking Mr Jones' long-dead mother and her platitudes, but had the grace to remain silent.

  'Bit parky in the morning now,' continued Mr Jones cheerfully. 'Have to think about getting the coal stocks in.'

  'When we had a station at Lulling,' said Percy, accepting the olive branch offered by this change in conversation, 'my old dad used to buy a wagonload and share it out with his neighbours. Much cheaper that way.'

  'Not many people nowadays to share in a wagonload,' commented Albert. 'They mostly has gas or electric.'

  'Dr Bailey had some,' reminisced Percy, 'and old Mr Harmer, Dotty's father. By the way, I hear her Flossie's in a bad way.'

  Albert was alarmed. He was as fond of Flossie as Dotty was. He made up his mind to visit them both later in the day.

  'What's up then?'

  'Just old age, I should think. Betty Bell told my wife when she was at bingo. Dotty was on about getting the vet. She'd tried all her own homemade remedies.'

  'Humph!' said Mr Jones, but said no more. A publican learns to be discreet in a small community.

  'I'll pop down later,' said Albert, putting down his glass. 'Same again, please. Perce, d'you want another?'

  Surprised at this unusual generosity, Percy pushed his glass forward.

  'Don't mind if I do,' he said, and was careful not to make any wisecracks about the nouveaux riches.

  Later that morning the vet arrived at Dotty's to examine the patient.

  He took a long time over the job while Dotty and Connie watched him anxiously. Flossie had waved a languid tail to show that there was no ill-feeling over past indignities she had suffered at his hands, but otherwise had stirred little.

  'There's nothing really nasty to worry about,' he assured the watchers. 'It's simply a case of general ageing. Most of the vital organs, lungs, heart and so on are just getting less able to do the job. I could take her back with me, if you agree, and try that new remedy, or I can give her an injection here and now, and leave some pills with you.'

  'I'll keep her here,' decided Dotty. They watched the syringe being carefully filled, the injection given and Flossie gently massaged with an experienced hand.

  'Looking like autumn,' said the vet, as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink, and gazed through the window. A flurry of yellow leaves had fluttered from Dotty's old plum tree, as a gust of wind stirred the branches.

  'Plenty of sloes about,' he went on, as he dried his hands. 'I shall have to get on with my sloe gin.'

  'Do you still prick them?' asked Dotty. 'I used to use a silver hatpin of my mother's until Connie told me of a much better way.'

  'And what's that?' enquired the vet. 'Never too late to learn, you know.'

  'Spread them on a dish and put them in the freezer,' Connie told him, 'then they burst when you take them out, and are all ready for the gin when they've thawed.'

  'Now that's worth knowing,' agreed the vet, shrugging himself into his jacket.

  'Don't worry about the old lady,' he added. 'She's in no pain, and got plenty of mileage in her yet.'

  Connie thought privately, as they watched him make his way to the car, that his comments would be applicable to Dotty as well as her pet.

  September was running true to form. It was chilly in the early morning and evening, and summer clothes were being put away, and warm woollens were donned thankfully.

  But by mid-morning the early mists had usually cleared, giving way to pellucid blue skies and the particularly mellow sunshine of early autumn.

  In the gardens at Thrush Green the dahlias blazed supreme, making the most of their brief flamboyance before the frosts turned their glory to brown death. The summer flowers of such hardy types as penstemon, phlox and geraniums still showed colour, and gardeners were reluctant to cut them down, clinging to these last brave vestiges of summer beauty.

  Blackberries, as well as sloes, were in abundance, and in Lulling Woods there were some exotic-looking fungi, some with shiny red-spotted caps reminiscent of the countryman's red-spotted handkerchiefs, which most people, even Dotty Harmer, rejected as fodder.

  But there were mushrooms in the field behind Dotty's house, and these were quickly garnered by the knowledgeable inhabitants of Thrush Green, and relished with their breakfast bacon.

  At the village school the nature table was crammed with the bounty of the hedges and trees, and strings of shiny conkers accompanied the boys whenever they were in the playground. Early apples, such as Beauty of Bath, or the early purple plums, took the place of biscuits or cake at elevenses time. Soon, Alan Lester knew, the school heating system would need to be stirred, and winter would be upon everyone with preparations for the joyous celebration of Christmas at the end of term.

  He recalled the dreadful threat of mid-European dances all over again. He put the thought firmly behind him, and decided to concentrate instead on these last few golden days of a Cotswold summer.

  It was during this halcyon spell that Carl Andersen arrived.

  Ben Curdle went to Heathrow to meet him. It was a welcoming sort of morning, he thought happily, as he took the car from the garage. Gossamer threads and spiders' cobwebs spangled the garden hedge, and the sun was dispersing the mist and promising a fine day ahead.

  As he approached the airport the traffic slowed to a halt. On one side of him loomed an enormous lorry with a radio going full blast in the cab, and a fat young man nodding his head in time to the racket. He seemed to be quite at home in these conditions.

  On the other side was another fat man, somewhat older, balder and better dressed. He was obviously in a state of some agitation, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, looking a
t his watch, and picking at a scab on the back of his hand.

  Ben felt sorry for him. No doubt he had an important appointment to keep. Maybe it involved a lot of money, he speculated. He was thankful that he had no such pressing worries.

  If he was late, Carl would know that he had been held up and would be content to wait, just as he himself would be patient if the flight was delayed.

  Perhaps he was too submissive to what Fate threw at him, mused Ben, watching his unhappy neighbour getting more and more agitated? But what good did it do to get steamed up like that? You took life as it came in the country. Thrush Green folk were used to waiting, waiting for crops to ripen, for lambs to be born, for pheasants to hatch. It all came right in the end, thought Ben philosophically as he saw that the traffic had begun to inch along again.

  As it happened, Carl's flight was delayed by almost an hour, but Ben enjoyed a cup of coffee and surveyed his companions as he waited.

  They certainly seemed a jumpy lot on the whole, was his opinion, as he slowly stirred his coffee. He was the first to admit that flying somewhere must be a worrying business, what with tickets and luggage and excitable children and confused elderly relations, but he felt sure that if the proposed visit to America ever took place, he and Molly would be a lot calmer than most of those about him.

  In one of his rare periods at school, an irate teacher had called him 'thick, boneheaded and a country bumpkin'. Ben thought he was probably right. He knew that he was also patient and obedient. Rebellion would never occur to him. At times like the present, mused Ben, it was a good thing to be 'a thick, boneheaded country bumpkin'.

  As the passengers on Carl's flight gradually emerged, it was easy to spot Carl himself by his great height and the thatch of fair hair which overtopped his neighbours.

  Both men beamed with delight as they saw each other, and Ben held out a welcoming hand. But Carl dropped both his bags and enveloped Ben in a muscular bear-hug of joy.

  'Good to see you,' he cried. 'Sorry I'm late.'